The Morning After What!
by sunshinesundae
Summary: Hermione wakes up, hungover and tied to a stranger's bed, with no recollection of how she got there. "I know you're not asleep," he said. "Because if you were, you'd still be snoring like a troll with a head cold." Dramione one-shot.


_**Title: The Morning After What?!**_

 _A/N: A fluffy Dramione one-shot I wrote over Valentine's day weekend. Please do drop me a review to let me know what you thought :)_

 _Rating: M for language, some hot snogging and Ron-bashing_

 _Disclaimer: Don't own HP. Do own this fic. Please don't republish it anywhere without my permission. Thanks!_

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When Hermione woke up, the first thing she became aware of was a pounding headache. A hangover – the most awful she'd ever known.

The second thing she became aware of, slowly, after a second or two of agonised grimacing, was that she was tied to a bed.

Tied. To a _bed_.

Her eyes snapped open in alarm… and almost immediately snapped shut again, since she'd apparently fallen asleep last night on the surface of the sun.

Ever sensible, she searched back through the fog of her mind, trying to work out exactly what had happened to her, and how she'd ended up tied – _tied_! – to a stranger's bed.

And she was positive it was a stranger's bed; it was far too comfy to be her own.

At least she wasn't _naked_ in a stranger's bed, she thought with dubious relief. She'd had a bit of a wriggle and she could tell she was safely tucked under a blanket, still wearing what she assumed were yesterday's work skirt and tights. But not, she realised with another frantic wriggle, her blouse.

Merlin, what else was she missing?!

She braved the blinding light to peek quickly down at herself. Phew, okay – her bra was still on. Somewhat heartened, she flopped back against the pillow to consider her options.

Right. So this wasn't your average everyday situation. But there was no need to jump to conclusions. There had to be a rational explanation. There just _had_ to be.

She just needed to remember it.

Yesterday, she knew, was definitely Valentine's Day. She certainly remembered her co-workers at the Ministry mooning over their significant others and sending secret admirer notes via scented pink paper planes. The force of her glare had stopped any planes heading her way right in their tracks.

The haze of last night was still stubbornly refusing to lift, but she remembered leaving the office early and taking the floo home.

She had made an enormous fuss to Ron over not needing to do anything special for Valentine's Day. It was a silly, commercial holiday, she told him; she was entirely secure in his love for her, and she didn't need a generic card and a dozen red roses to prove it.

Ron had been relieved – but then, she thought rather uncharitably, he was always relieved when Hermione expected nothing from him.

At any rate, she'd complained all week about the cheap chocolates, the gaudy shop displays, the overstuffed teddy bears in varying and sickly shades of pink… but secretly, she'd booked them a table at the restaurant where he'd proposed, almost two full years ago now, and a room at an upmarket hotel by the river.

Her plan was to leave work early, change into some saucy underwear and a pretty dress, and surprise Ron with a glass of champagne when he got home from work an hour or two later. But, on walking into the kitchen, had found her devoted fiancé receiving _another_ sort of surprise from a lovely young witch with long blonde hair and balloons for boobs. Which, of course, she got a fine look at, considering they were both naked.

Her stomach convulsed at the memory. Or maybe it was at the bitter taste of stale booze clinging to the roof of her mouth.

Ugh. She really did feel awful. How much did she drink last night?

Objectively, Ron's reaction to her unexpected entry had been hilarious. His jaw had dropped, and his face had flooded so red she couldn't see his freckles. He hadn't been able to speak at first, spluttering like his dad's old Ford Anglia for what must have been a full excruciating minute.

Too stunned for tears, she had simply stared, waiting for him to summon the wherewithal to say something coherent.

"H-Hermione," he had stammered eventually. "You– you said you'd be at work 'til seven!"

Fury had sharpened her tongue to its most bitingly sarcastic.

"Oh, that's right!" she'd exclaimed. "I'm sorry, I _am_ early. By all means, _finish_."

She hadn't bothered sticking around to find out if they did. Snatching her bag from where she'd dumped it on the sofa, she'd stormed out onto the street and well… just walked. She'd thought about going to Ginny's, but running to the sister of her cheating scumbag fiancé just felt wrong. And it was, after all, Valentine's day; all of her other girlfriends had plans for the night.

So she'd wandered the streets, eyes pricking with tears as the shock slowly wore off and reality set in. Somehow she'd ended up at some obscure muggle bar in Soho. A _cheap_ bar. The alcohol had been awful, but that hadn't stopped her drinking herself into oblivion.

And one way or another, in between the vodka, neat and straight from the bottle, and this sunny nausea-inducing morning, she'd ended up here.

Wherever here was.

Bravely, she cracked open an eye. The sun must have gone behind a cloud because the light didn't seem so painfully bright this time, so she opened the other and looked nervously around.

Her heart sank.

She was very definitely in a man's bedroom. A _single_ man's bedroom. The room screamed bachelor pad.

Whoever he was though, he had good taste. The room was modern, light and mostly neutral in browns, creams and the slightest hints of moss green – although the high ceiling with a dramatic slope towards the window told her that the house itself was old. There was an antique looking globe on the desk and shelves upon shelves of books lining the wall opposite the bed. Hermione felt a little comforted; books were always a good sign.

But there was still the concerning case of the restraints. She tilted her head back and saw her wrists had been bound to the headboard with... with a – she squinted a little – was that a tie? It was. It was a man's necktie.

… and good god, it was green and silver.

Hermione's eyes screwed shut as, just like that, the pounding in her head magnified tenfold.

After all these years and having worked with a fair few Slytherins at the Ministry, she harboured no ill will to her rival house. But it did churn out a disturbingly high number of arrogant arseholes. Godric knew which of them she'd come home with last night.

She just hoped that, whoever he was, he wasn't some sort of closet serial killer. If she was murdered because of her philandering fiancé, she swore she'd haunt the man for the rest of his miserable life.

"Good morning, Granger," a familiar voice drawled from the doorway.

Oh bloody hell. She'd rather it were a serial killer.

She didn't stir. Maybe if she ignored him, he'd go away. Unfortunately not; she heard him come to stand at the foot of the bed.

"I know you're not asleep," he said. "Because if you were, you'd still be snoring like a troll with a head cold."

Her eyes snapped open in indignation, and there he was.

Draco Malfoy _._

Of course he looked his usual perfectly put together self – fresh and relaxed in chinos and a woollen jumper that probably cost more than Hermione's entire wardrobe – while she was sprawled here, hungover, with hair like a bramble patch. He even had the gall to smirk at her, the smug git.

Oh, she wanted to smack it right off his face.

The urge to cause bodily harm to Malfoy was, unfortunately, not a new feeling for Hermione. She and Draco worked together in the Ministry's department of Magical Creatures and had done for some time now. They weren't on the same team, mind – she worked for legal; he ran finance – but their offices shared a floor and a breakroom, so they crossed paths often.

As gatekeeper to the entire department's spending, he and Hermione had gotten into it more than once over funding for her campaigns. His favourite pastime, it seemed, was winding her up like a muggle clock, and he did it every chance he got. Her mad hair, her frumpy skirt, her eagerness to right the wrongs of the world; it was all fair game. She was just lucky that there were equally as many things worth mocking about _him_.

Petty insults aside, she did derive some perverse pleasure from their verbal sparring. None of the other men in her life quite stimulated her mind as much as Draco.

Didn't mean he didn't drive her absolutely barmy though.

She winced as the sun chose that exact moment to reappear, bursting through the window and half blinding her. For a moment, she actually thought her head might explode.

"Close the curtains," she croaked, throat grating like sandpaper.

She saw his shadow move from behind her eyelids, but the drapes remained stubbornly open.

" _Malfoy."_

"Okay, okay," he said, sounding far too amused by her misery. "Don't get your knickers in a twist."

She wanted to tell him that he had absolutely no effect on her knickers, but since she was currently tied to his bed, minus her blouse, she couldn't be entirely sure that was true.

And it was pissing her off no end.

"I'm serious, Malfoy," she said through gritted teeth. "Close the fucking curtains."

He laughed outright at that but, thankfully, did as she asked, plunging the world behind her eyelids into darkness. She didn't open her eyes just yet though; she was too busy calling down evil, evil things on a certain blond-haired pureblood wizard.

She wished she could do wandless magic. She'd send him somewhere horrible. Or turn him into a toad.

And then, she decided maliciously, she'd march straight home and turn her no-good cheating boyfriend into a toad too. No, a toad was too good. She'd turn him into a slug.

And then she'd squash him.

But first, she needed to find out exactly what wicked things Draco Malfoy had exacted on her person after she'd apparently gone to bed with him. And precisely what she had to do to make sure no one ever found out.

"Malfoy," she said, opening her eyes to scowl at him. "What the hell am I doing tied to your bed?"

He grinned at her. It was the grin of a man who knew something she didn't. Clearly, he hadn't been as smashed as her last night.

"You don't remember?"

"I was drunk."

"Too bloody right you were," he said. "I had to peel you off the floor more than once."

She wriggled against her bonds, suddenly claustrophobic.

"Untie me," she said. "Untie me now."

She half expected him to draw it out, but he came over and carefully loosened the tie. He had to lean over her to do it, his warm fingers brushing the delicate skin of her wrists, and Hermione's eyes flickered shut as she realised – or perhaps remembered – just how good he smelled, a scrumptious combination of dark wood and citrus.

She could have slept with him last night, she realised in shock. Drunk and unthinking, if he'd flirted with her the way he did at work, if he'd flattered her, if he'd kissed her, she might not have said no.

But why wouldn't _he_?

She sat up slowly, easing herself to sit on the edge of the bed, but even that gentle movement sent waves of nausea washing over her.

Draco stepped back to give her some room, or maybe just to enjoy the moment; he was watching her grimace with unadulterated amusement in his eyes.

Godric, he was an arse.

"Of course you'd tie me up with _that_ ," she said, casting a malevolent look at the neck-tie in his hand.

He suppressed a smirk, slipping it over the bedpost.

"It was the first one I pulled out of my drawer."

"Right," she said flatly. "Liar."

He chuckled, and the sound made the world spin in the most alarming way. She groaned, leaning forward with her head in her hands.

Draco apparently thought she was about to throw up because he took a big step back.

"I'm not going to be sick," she mumbled into her hands.

"Good to hear," he said cheerfully. "Because if you puke on my Persian rug, Granger, I might just have to kill you."

Hermione peeked out under her eyelashes at the rug in question.

"Sod your ugly rug."

"Good one, Granger, a real zinger," he said, and she groaned again. She'd always thought Malfoy had a rather nice voice – if you liked aristocratic with a hint of condescension (which, apparently, she did) – but this morning, all she wanted to do was claw his voice box out of his throat, throw it on that beautiful, expensive rug and stamp on it.

She heard him pick something up from the nearest bedside table.

"Here," he said, crouching before her. "Drink this."

She glanced up to see a stout glass of something thick, black and suspiciously tar-like in his hand.

"What is it?" she asked warily.

"A lust potion. The same one I gave you last night to get you into bed with me." When her head jerked, he rolled his eyes. "It's a hangover cure, you silly bint. Take it."

When she did, he added offhandedly, "I didn't need to give you a lust potion last night, did I, love?"

She glared at him, but her head was really thumping and she desperately wanted it to stop. She sipped the potion gingerly. God, it tasted awful.

"Down in one, Granger," Draco said.

She scrunched up her nose in disgust but did as he said, cringing a little as the last of it slid, a near solid mass, down her throat.

"Gone?" he asked when she brought the cup back down. She nodded, and he took it gently from her hand, placing it back on the bedside table.

When that grey-eyed gaze returned to hers, it was curiously intense. Her breath caught in her throat, heart thudding in her chest, as it flickered unexpectedly to her mouth.

Time seemed to hang on a thread as slowly, slowly, he brought his hand up to touch her cheek. She shivered at the contact, then stilled as the corner of his mouth curled upwards and he wiped a gentle thumb across her top lip.

"The black moustache suits you, Granger."

Spell broken, Hermione rolled her eyes and leant away, forcing him to drop his hand.

"What happened last night, Malfoy?" she asked seriously. "What did we do?"

His eyes held hers for a moment, but then they slid down, rather deliberately and gleaming with wicked amusement, to settle on her breasts. And Hermione remembered, with no small amount of horror, that she wasn't wearing a blouse.

 _She wasn't wearing a blouse._

"You pervert!" she gasped, lunging for a pillow and dragging it across her chest. "Don't you dare look at me."

Draco slanted her a wry look, then leant over to grab her shirt from the floor where she'd apparently tossed it.

"Believe me, love," he said drily, standing and holding it out to her. "I got enough of an eyeful last night."

She took it with a scowl, slipping it quickly on and buttoning it up. Right to its matronly top.

"I can't _believe_ you," she hissed. "I was so drunk."

He grinned broadly, folding his arms across his chest.

"Granger," he said. "Nothing happened."

"How _could_ you-" she charged on furiously, then paused as his words registered. "What?"

"Last night," he said. " _Nothing happened_."

Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times as she absorbed this information.

"But… but you–"

"Enjoy tormenting you?" he asked. "Yes. Yes, I do."

She shot to her feet.

"You bastard!"

He laughed – actually laughed.

"Merlin, Granger. You've got a mouth on you in the mornings, haven't you?"

Godric help her. She was going to kill him.

"If we didn't have awful, drunken _sex_ –" she spat the word. "Then what the hell was I doing here, tied to your bed, without my clothes!"

Draco looked like he might laugh again. At least this time he made an effort to hide it.

It was aggravating her beyond words that he found her rage so amusing and not the least bit chastening. She was in his face, blistering with fury, and he wasn't at all intimidated. Ron, on the other hand, would have legged it by now; she couldn't decide which was more annoying.

Maybe Draco would look a little more penitent if she had her wand… wait – she felt frantically about her person – where was her wand?!

"Don't worry, I have it safe," Malfoy said, seeing her anxious pat-down. "You were waving it about rather dangerously, and I feared for the china cat collection."

The _what_? She stared at him, ire momentarily forgotten.

"China _cat_ collection…?" she asked, feeling a cheeky little grin stretch across her face.

"My mother's," he said, fixing her a hard look. "She's hiding them from the divorce lawyers."

Hermione perked up.

"Your mum's getting a divorce?" she asked, pleased. She knew he'd been gently nudging Narcissa towards it for years.

Draco narrowed his eyes.

"She is. But that is beside the point."

It was. She held out her hand.

"Give me my wand."

He shook his head.

"Not until I'm sure you won't hex me."

Her mind flashed with the heinous possibilities.

"You deserve more than a hex, you lying troll. You still haven't told me how the hell I got here!"

"Apparition, I presume," he said blithely. "Though how you did it so utterly sloshed, I have no idea."

 _What?_ She deflated a little.

"You– you don't know?"

He shrugged, smirking a little.

"You turned up on my doorstep around midnight."

"I did _not_ ," she said crossly. Draco had to have picked her up at the bar. That was the only logical explanation. "I did not," she repeated.

"Yes, you did," Malfoy said, looking entirely too entertained by the whole business. "You were drunk off your face and rambling about your sleazebag of a fiancé."

Hermione was dumbfounded.

Drunk and stupid, she might have gone home with Draco, but to come _here_ , to actively search him out… there was no way.

But now she thought about it, she did have the vague, stomach-churning recollection of apparition and a rather wobbly landing in a patch of poor baby tulips. Merlin, she could have killed herself!

But to come here to Draco, and to tell him about Ron's _betrayal_ , of all things. What an earth had possessed her?

"Don't call him that," she said half-heartedly.

"Why not?" Draco challenged. "He is, isn't he?"

"It doesn't matter what he is," she said primly. "It's none of your business."

"No," he agreed. "But you made it my business when you turned up at my door – interrupting my quiet Friday evening by the way – and proceeded to spend the next hour alternating between sobbing on my shoulder and trying to convince me to sleep with you."

"I did _not_!" she said, scandalised. He arched a single blond brow.

"Didn't you?"

"No!"

And then the memory hit her. Of the misery she'd felt, slumped at the bar last night. Of the loneliness. The need to be loved.

Ron didn't love her. How could he when he was sleeping with another woman behind her back? Eight years they'd been together, on and off at times, more off than on most times admittedly, but they were finally getting it together – they were getting _married_ – yet he didn't think she was worth staying faithful to.

But she wanted to be loved. She wanted to be wanted. And sometimes, when she fought with Malfoy, when he teased her, when she tormented him, she thought she saw a spark of something hot in those smoke grey eyes.

And she wanted that too.

Last night – alone, drunk and desperate in a scummy bar – she'd thought only of Draco. The dingy ladies' loos had been her hasty apparition point; she didn't know how, but fortunately, she'd made it to his doorstep in one, very intoxicated piece.

Draco's face had been a picture when he opened the door – utter astonishment, followed swiftly by concern as she'd toppled in. She didn't really remember what she'd said after that. Stuff about Ron apparently. Malfoy seemed to know about the cheating; who knows what else she'd told him about her deteriorating relationship?

She had kissed him too, she recalled with horror. Or at least tried to – drunk Hermione didn't have very good aim. He hadn't reeled back in revulsion, but he hadn't kissed her back.

He hadn't wanted her either.

"Oh my god," she whispered, mortified.

Draco's expression softened.

"You remember," he said quietly.

"Some of it," she choked. "My blouse…" She remembered opening it button by button.

His lip quirked.

"Part of your grand plan of seduction."

She closed her eyes in humiliation.

"The tie…"

"Self-preservation. You're a handsy drunk."

"Oh my god," she said again. "You should have just called Ron."

Draco snorted.

"The hell I should have," he said heatedly. "That tosser broke your heart. He doesn't deserve an ounce of your time."

Hermione felt her eyes prick with tears. But she dropped her head to hide it, staring blindly down at her feet.

How could she have embarrassed herself so? Normal drunk people kissed a stranger or danced on a table. But she… she had come to Draco. And he had rejected her! At least if they'd slept together, he could share in her mortification. But they hadn't; it had just been her. Silly, inebriated, unlovable Hermione.

There was a huge lump in her throat, but she wouldn't cry. Not in front of Draco. Not again. He wasn't being unkind – not now he knew she remembered what she'd done – but he must think her such a fool.

Godric, she needed to get out of here. She needed to leave before she burst into tears and humiliated herself all over again.

Blinking hard, she cleared her throat and looked up.

"Well, um, thank you for making sure I was okay. And for the hangover potion," she added, realising her headache was gone. The nausea wasn't, of course, but now there was an entirely different reason. "I'm sorry I ruined your evening."

She made to step round him, but he moved with her, catching hold of her hip in one hand. Her heart stuttered painfully at his touch, and she stilled, disconcerted.

"Just where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

Hermione peered up at him through damp, blurry eyes.

"H-home?" she said uncertainly. Draco's jaw twitched, and she remembered just which cheating fiancé she lived with.

Her shoulders slumped.

"I guess I could go to Ginny's or Luna's," she said in a small voice.

"Or," he said, then hesitated. "Or you could stay _here_."

He looked so self-conscious saying it, so unlike himself, that Hermione was quite speechless.

When she didn't reply, only stared open-mouthed, he hurried on, "Just for the weekend of course, while you get yourself sorted. But you can– you can stay as long as you like. I– I have a spare bedroom."

A spare bedroom. Right. Hermione glanced down, oddly disappointed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't. Not… not after last night."

She remembered it clearly now. Not all of it, but enough to know what she'd admitted to him. What she'd finally admitted to herself.

Her relationship with Ron had fallen apart a long time ago. And in the interim, she had slowly started falling for someone else. Someone with sardonic silver eyes. Someone with hair the colour of sunlight. Someone who drove her crazy, but had been the first person she wanted to see when she'd realised her engagement was over.

And she'd never even noticed it.

Her head jerked up, startled, as she felt Draco's fingers brush the bare skin of her arm. When her damp-eyed gaze refocused on his face, she saw his expression was warm.

"Hermione, love," he said softly. "Do you really think I said no last night because I didn't want you?"

She blinked at him, feeling her heart thump hard in her chest.

"Yes," she said hesitantly. Hadn't he?

His eyes crinkled at the corners.

"You were very, very drunk," he said wryly. "And clearly heartbroken. I was trying to be a gentleman." His voice lowered, thickened – darkening with those storm-grey eyes. "But I wanted you," he murmured. "I've wanted you for a long time."

Heat pooled in her belly, and she swayed a little, dizzy at his proximity, at the warmth of his hand still rested on her hip.

"You- you wanted me," she whispered faintly. His eyes dropped to her lips.

"I still do."

Hermione wasn't sure there was much to want about her right now, what with her crumpled clothes and bird's nest hair. But there was no doubt he did. She could see it simmering just below the surface, in the stiffness of his body, in the smoulder of his gaze.

It made her bold.

"I'm not drunk anymore," she said. "And I'm not heartbroken either."

His eyes snapped up to meet hers.

"You're not?"

Slowly, she reached up to touch his face, tracing her thumb across his bottom lip – and smiled.

"I've wanted you for a long time too."

And that was that. Draco let out a rough groan and pulled her towards him, kissing her hard on the mouth.

She sank into him, skin thrilling with pleasure as his arms tightened around her and their bodies met. He was hard and hot and delicious against her; her hands slid up his chest, round his neck, fingers pushing through his hair to keep his mouth on hers.

"Hermione," he murmured, and the sound of her name on his lips crackled across her skin like a flame to paper. She gave a breathy gasp, shamefully loud in the quiet of the bedroom, then shuddered as he took advantage of her open mouth to explore her with his tongue.

She could feel her heart pounding hard in her chest. Or was it his? She was pressed so tightly against him she couldn't tell. Didn't matter though. Whoever's it was, her body positively thrummed with it; it made her tremble, made her knees go week.

Bed, she thought giddily. She needed the bed.

She broke the kiss – lips tingling, breath choppy – and tugged backwards. Draco didn't let her get far before he kissed her again, but he seemed to know what she wanted; he guided them to the bed, keeping her body flattened against him as he eased her carefully down onto the mattress.

Her skirt rode dangerously high as she parted her legs to make room. His hand found the bared skin of her thigh like a magnet, but still, she wanted more.

She traced her fingers down his flat, hard stomach, intent on locating his belt buckle. But then he mouthed his way down to her throat, and she couldn't even remember her own name, let alone what she planned to do with it.

Her breath came raggedly as he kissed her – hot and open-mouthed on sensitive skin – as far down as her demure blouse would allow then back up again.

It wasn't far enough.

"Off," she gasped, arching her back. "Take it off."

"Wait," he panted, lifting his head. "Not yet."

Hermione had never pouted before in her whole life, but then Draco had never stopped kissing her before either.

"Why not?"

He caught hold of her hand in one of his and brought it up between them. Ron's ring flashed silver on her finger.

 _Ah._ She couldn't stop the smile spreading across her face.

"I can take it off."

He shook his head, eyes simmering with a delicious combination of humour and heat.

"Not good enough."

"What then?" she asked. "Burn it? Vanish it? Throw it out the window?" She especially enjoyed the idea of defenestration. Maybe with a spell or two, she could toss Ron out of the window as well.

Draco smoothed a tangled, slightly sweaty curl behind her ear.

"Let's go give it him back," he suggested. "And while we're at it, you can dump the wanker and pack up some of your things."

"Good idea," she said. She'd tucked her fingers just inside the hem of his jumper and was very much enjoying the feeling of his hot, hard abs. "Crookshanks will be missing me by now."

He pulled a face.

"You still have that mangy fleabag?"

"Yes!" she said, put out. "And he's not mangy, neither does he have fleas." She paused. "That offer of a room…"

Those silver eyes narrowed.

"No," he said. "Not on your life."

"But he hates Ron!" She put on her best pleading look. "Please? He'll match your china cat collection."

"My _mum's_ china cat collection. And no, he won't. They're all pedigree."

"You're a snob, that's what you are," she said. "I tell you what…"

She slid her foot up the back of his leg until her thigh was hooked round his middle, aligning their hips with tantalising friction.

"You extend your invitation to Crookshanks," she said slowly, satisfied to see his pupils dilate with lust. "He stays in the spare room, and I…" She tugged him down until her lips found his ear. " _I_ stay in here with you."

"You drive a hard bargain," he choked. She used her tongue to trace the shell of his ear, and he groaned. "Fine. The damn cat gets the spare room."

Draco had been unable to resist kissing her again after that, and things… well, things got a little heated.

This time, her hands made it to his belt buckle and beyond, and it wasn't long before her blouse was on the floor once more, along with the rest of their clothes. But not the green and silver neck-tie he'd looped round the bedpost; they found a very creative use for _that_.

They did finally make it out of the bedroom though, some time mid-afternoon. Draco kept his word, even if it was extracted with less-than-fair coercion, and later that very same day, Hermione and Crookshanks moved in.

" _Temporarily_ ," she emphasised, dropping her suitcase on the living room floor.

"Temporarily," Draco had agreed, kissing the back of her neck and making her shiver.

Resisting the urge to celebrate their new arrangement right there in the living room, she left her bags on the floor and carried her cat upstairs to see his new room – followed swiftly by her new lover, who made several obscene comments about her arse as he climbed the stairs behind her.

Crookshanks ignored the pair of them, opting instead to explore his new domain. He seemed to like it; Hermione and Draco watched from the doorway as, tail high and proud, the fluffy ginger cat prowled the jungle of cardboard boxes, scenting every corner, testing each and every box with single-minded determination.

In fact, he liked it so much, he never left.

And neither, it turned out, did Hermione.

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 _A/N: Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out my other Dramione fic, a boss/employee romance called Devil's Snare - now complete._


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